It was a dreadful night. On the side of a mountain by the sea, a death, an accident had just taken place. Behind the driver's wheel was a man, around 30 years of age, with a grim expression painted on his visage. He didn't know if what he had just done was an accident or on purpose, but he knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the man he had run over was dead. Quickly opening the car's door, he swung the body over the railing to assure his crime would never be found. But secretly inside, he knew that truly he wanted the man dead. He can't deny it, he can't bury it, he had always hated the man. He hardened his resolve and stepped back into the car, pledging never to speak of it.
A searing impact swept over him, as he was launched backwards at alarming speed. Before him was a large car with a driver who's been pushed over the edge. The man's ribcage was fractured and his lungs were pierced, if they could get help fast enough, he may survive, but the driver didn't seem cooperative.
"Hey… this is a joke, right?"
Not listening, the driver picked up the man. The man looked into the driver's eyes to see that what was painted on his face wasn't a fearful look, but one filled with glee. The glee of getting rid of one of his worst enemies.
"Hey… please stop this, alright?"
With a final plea, the man was flung over the railing and onto the rocks below. Maybe if he didn't push the driver over the edge in the morning, this wouldn't have happened. But his regrets were too late. He knew what was going to happen next. With a vicious, "Crack!" his cranium burst open and his body was claimed by the sea.
"Murder becomes a habit."
It was one of the famous words a legendary detective, Hercule Poirot left the world with. What it means isn't that once you have killed, you feel the urge to continue to kill. It means once you have thought of murder as a solution to one of your problems, you can't help but think of murder as a solution to one of your future problems.
"Murder becomes a habit."
In fact, the driver knew deep down. Murder had already become a habit. Try as he might to deny it, that day, wasn't an accident at all. In fact, all the other ones weren't accidents either.